


K.

by Zigzagwanderer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Dead Snoke (Star Wars), Dirty Thoughts, Eventual Sex, Evil Darlings, Freckles, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Kissing, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Skinny Dipping, Smut, space boyfriends, they're both adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer
Summary: Prompt for Kyluxxoxo Summerfest 2019. (Sand/drink/wave)General Hux gets a promotion which will take him away from his co-commander. They're both completely ecstatic about it and won't miss one another at all.(Title from 'Cigarettes After Sex')Thanks if you read/kudo/comment!!!!! I appreciate it!!!!! Xxxxxxxx





	1. Drink

Ren’s happiness is as artificial as the landscaping of the Snoke memorial gardens. 

“So, uh, who’d you fuck to get this promotion anyways?”

He knuckles General Hux on the shoulder. 

It’s the kind of thing Ren’s seen done by troopers a million times over, yet it feels like bone trying to speak to bone through the leather of Ren’s glove, through the familiar tough softness of Hux’s greatcoat. 

Ren wants to groan at the contact, wants to strip Hux off and dig his nails into the pale meat of him, then kiss away the blood and the hurt.

Just two regular buddies, hanging out.

“Idiot.” Hux grunts, cool as the shiver of the breeze across the water. “You know that I bloody well _deserve_ to be Grand Marshall.”

Thanking fuck that Hux didn’t namecheck some good-looking adjutant, even as a joke, Ren glances sideways at him.

Hux’s eyes are exactly like the lakes; ice-green and deceptively deep and edged with curving lashes the colour of the tall honey-reeds that ring them. Ren knows that he won’t be able to come to this place again. 

Not on his own.

Not after Hux leaves for the citadel on Seitcyn. 

“All of our little kill-shot competitions, our wagers on who-decapitates-a-rebel-first in hand-to-hand combat. It’s all paid off.” Hux rubs his long, slim fingers together. Ren is mesmerised. “I now have excellent field experience to match my academic credentials. To be quite honest, if anyone’s ‘fucked’ me into this, Ren, then it’s _you._”

Hux pauses and his cheekbones redden. After all, it’s cold here, as befits a planet-sized tomb. 

There’s a long, strange silence. 

“Don’t see how,” Kylo mumbles, in the end, because they’ve run out of scenic pathway and are almost back at the ship. “You never beat me at anything.”

Kylo could prove his point easily. 

He’s kept all of their score cards and the nonsensical analysis charts Hux draws up when they’re drunk and delighted and debriefing together after each campaign. 

Hux’s portfolio of line drawings Ren could live without; Hux blathers on about how they’re meant to illustrate the Art of War, serve as a reminder of their many glorious triumphs, but every single sketch, without exception, is of _Ren_.

And he fucking knows Hux is mocking him in that sly, elegant way he has, because, honestly, Ren just isn’t that noble-looking, nor, he fears, so fucking _beautiful_. 

“Most people would have let me win. So, thank you. And Ren?”

“Yes?”

“I think your glove’s caught on my epaulettes again.”

Kylo snatches his hand away. 

The skirmish of emotions in his gut is dumb; it was as natural that a daring, foxy bastard like Hux would catch the eye of Strategic High Command, as it was that Ren would be left behind, a mutt with no master. 

“I shall miss the cut-and-thrust of our co-commanding, of course.” Hux is watching the fur-foals frolicking at play in the shallows. He picks up and throws some flinty rocks at them. “But I daresay you would have grown tired of sharing everything with me, in time?” 

His tone is off. It’s like he wants a particular answer. Ren, still blindsided by the shape of Hux’s mouth as he said the word ‘thrust’, doesn’t know what else to do but shrug.

They settle on their bench, and Hux holds out his hand, receiving the one cigar per cycle Ren allows him. 

The fiercest killer in the goddamn universe tolerates Hux’s theatrical full body shudder _twice_, before sighing and scrunching up closer. Hux pulls Ren’s cloak over his thighs and fetches out his hipflask. 

Ren shakes it, like the smug asshole of a bartender in the holodrama they watched on Hux’s sofa the other night. “Is this shit mixed with milkshake syrup? The one I like?” 

“Of course, Ren,” Hux snorts, “vintage rosé just wouldn’t be the same without adding malted caramel flavour.” 

Ren sips their drink, but it doesn’t help the tension that’s building, like the blizzard-heavy clouds above the mausoleum.

“Should get you back,” he murmurs. “You’ll catch another chill.”

“Yes,” Hux agrees, but neither seems inclined to move. 

Eventually, they start to talk, but the conversation circles aimlessly around from trooper injury rates to their fathers and back to why some scars heal and some don’t. 

Hux speaks less and less and smokes more and more.

And he frowns. A lot. Ren had expected him to be smug. Gloating. Vicious. _Funny_.

It’s clearly the beginning of the end of whatever ‘this’ has been. 

It’s Hux withdrawing.

Cutting the ties.

Because Grand Marshalls do _not_ listen to lowbrow cantina music late at night to keep their insomniac Force user buddy company, humming along on the edge of the bunk while completing admin work, stern face relaxed in the steady glow of their datapad. 

They do not make hidden-camera footage compilations of trooper fails, because their Force user buddy has had another tough day of being misunderstood by almost every other person in the First Order, and possibly the entire galaxy, and needs to have a reason to smile.

In fact, Ren is pretty fucking sure that Grand Marshalls do not have Force user buddies _at all_. 

“This is the right thing to do, isn't it?” Hux suddenly leans forward, away from the warmth of Ren’s body. “If you had anything at all to say about my redeployment, now would be an acceptable moment to spit it out.” He slicks back his already perfect hair. Even the fucking shape of his skull is lovely. “Who knows? Maybe I might even give your views…consideration.” 

“Uh, wait.” Ren swallows. “Let me think.” 

It’s an unexpected agony.

Ren can’t tell Hux how precious he is, and that he’ll be way safer off the front line; Hux is a proper soldier and that would mortally offend him. 

He can’t tell Hux that he’s brilliant, and driven, and has earned his place at the crest of the organisation in a way Ren himself envies; Hux would think Ren delusional. 

He can’t, in fact, tell Hux anything that’s in any way meaningful or true. 

Because that’s not what buddies do. 

“Well, I hear they have better desserts than we get on the Finalizer.” Ren blinks in the diamond shimmer of the snowy air. His eyes prickle. “And at Executive Level, you'd be allowed a pet, or a relationship, or some shit like that.” 

“Oh?”

“Only if you wanted those things. You probably wouldn’t, I mean, who does, right?”

“No. Who does?”

“I’m just saying there are way more perks, Hux. And that you’d be a pig-headed fuckwit to turn it down.” 

“Right. And…and...how do…_you_…feel? About me leaving?” 

“Me?” 

Ren puts down the flask. One more slug and he’ll throw up. Hux has wanted this for as long as Ren has known him. 

For as long as Ren has wanted _him_.

“Buddy," Ren says. "I can’t fucking _wait_ to see the back of you.”


	2. Sand

“You do nothing much between wars, you lazy oaf. Pilot me to Seitcyn?” Hux asks, like he could give a fuck one way or the other.

“If I have to.” Ren just as casually replies. 

They seem to lack forward motion; Ren mutters about _faulty kriffing impulse connectors,_ and how the trip will be a drag, the two of them practically sitting on top of one another, crawling along in a tiny, overheated cockpit. Hux responds magnificently; they are elite warriors, and used to hardship, and they must find it within themselves to persevere. 

He breaks out the high-sucrose ration bars. Ren puts on some sticky cantina jazz. The transport fills up with cigar smoke and chit-chat.

They keep beginning the one conversation that _never_ gets finished, doing whatever the exact opposite of a heart-to-heart is, until, eventually, they run out of nerve and space and candy, and cannot help but arrive at their destination. 

Hux steps off the landing platform. Stumbles head-first into the powder-blue, scintillating sand, then clutches dramatically at his foot. 

“What the bloody hell fuck is all this?” 

He’s perspiring already in his heavy coat, and Ren is trying to memorize the scent of him, all sweet and hot and disgruntled. He’s trying, in fact, not to give in and just lick the goddamn sweat right off Hux while he still has the chance.

“You must have known Strategic Command took over a resort planet?” Ren ties up his hair into a messy knot. 

“Why would I concern myself with…” Hux looks over. 

“Ren,” he says hoarsely, “what are you _doing_?” 

“Taking off my clothes.”

They frown at one another.

“Oh.” Hux brushes down his trousers. “Alright.” 

Ren notices how oddly Hux walks away up the beach. Must be a twisted ankle.

The dark lord follows, leaving his under-shorts on. Despite what Hux often says, he’s not a _complete_ barbarian.

Ren settles Hux into his Executive Suite. 

“How can I serve the Order if most likely I will become incapacitated like this on a daily basis?” Hux grumbles, hobbling about and tapping cigar ash into the complimentary fruit baskets.

“Weren’t you limping on the other leg just now?” 

“Fuck off.”

Ren wanders out onto the balcony. The view is heavenly, all reef-rainbowed lagoons and flowering foliage and curving coastline. 

He turns his back on it all and watches Hux peevishly slot his one small kitbag into the cavernous walk-in wardrobe. 

Grimace at the wastefulness of the plush, spacious bathroom. 

Look adorably disconcerted by the _gigantic_ bed.

“I have to go soon.” Ren says quietly, definitely not thinking about how Hux would look laid out across the smooth white sheets, arching under him, utterly _wrecked_ with pleasure. Fucked-out and splayed open wide while Ren’s tongue communicates all the things he cannot find phrases for in his uncouth, unlovely vocabulary. 

Hux glances up from those sheets. Slowly. His eyes meet Ren’s and he blushes for no reason whatsoever. Neatens his cuffs. Clears his throat. 

“Yes. Of course. I’m afraid you will have a lot to attend to, until you find some brilliant young buck to replace me.” 

Neither moves, the bed a pillowy siren of satin between them. 

Then Hux does an awkward little bow. “Perhaps I could at least offer you some refreshment, before you leave?”

“You? Buying me dinner?” Ren feels kind of empty inside, so he shrugs. “Ok. But I’m only putting out if I get two desserts.”

It’s a hilarious joke. Them, dating. Them, kissing. 

They laugh and laugh at the very idea of it, all the way to the officer’s mess hall.

Where there isn’t a ration bar in sight.

Hux sends plate after plate of food back. It’s too hot, too cold, too incomprehensible.

“Too incomprehensible? It’s soup, Hux.”

“Yes, Ren. And there was no balance or overall narrative to the seasoning or presentation.” Hux scowls, fidgeting with his cutlery, the napkin, the stupid single candle the waiter lit at their table for two. “It seems that if I am to remain here, I am bound for indigestion as well as injury.”

“If?”

Ren drinks some of the wine himself, to stop Hux from downing all of the second bottle. It tastes like anxiety.

“Let’s get you tucked in,” Ren sighs. “You’re just overtired.”

The moon-coppered night makes the quaint, cobbled alleyways seem especially intimate, and they dawdle, and glance at one another, and so lose their way returning across the island to what Hux keeps referring to as ‘the barracks’.

“The songbirds here are too noisy.” Hux keeps bumping into Ren. Ren doesn’t mind. “And I thought the sunshine would never end.”

“And the air. So fresh and unfiltered.”

“See?” Hux claps Ren on the back. “You _understand_ me.” 

They must be the three best words in the universe.

Ren feels dizzy with it, and takes a wrong turning which leads them to a secluded cove. They stand together and the sea surges softly back and forth. 

“Also,” Hux admits, “I can’t bloody well swim.”

“What?”

“I had more important things to learn. Tactical Analysis. Military Philosophy.” Hux is so damn cute and dignified. “How to waltz.”

He suddenly turns. “Will you teach me?”

“Now?” Ren groans. “But it’s late and hot and we don’t have any swimwear…”

He sees how dark Hux’s eyes are. 

“Oh.” Ren says.

Hux takes off his jacket. Eases out of his braces. Starts on his belt. 

“Think of it as a final duty.”

“Ok.” Ren swallows.

Hux undresses right down to his underwear. It’s nothing Ren hasn’t seen before when they train and spar, but somehow, it is. 

Hux wades out into the ocean. 

He looks over one shoulder at Ren and Ren wades out too.

It’s cool. The breeze carries both the wet muskiness of the rockpools and the raw green perfume of the dunes. 

Hux skims his palms over sparkling crests. His chest is flushed and his nipples mouth-wateringly hard. 

Ren reaches for Hux’s waist.

There is a point when he could be merely offering some kind of swimcoachy physical support, but then his fingertips connect with Hux’s smooth skin and he shakes.

He actually fucking _shakes_. 

“Steady.” Hux brings his own hands up and eases Ren’s arms more securely around himself. “Steady. Just breathe. Just breathe, Kylo.”

They stand in the shallows, embracing, just like that, for a while, faces close but not touching, with the grit oozing up between their toes and the bioluminescent fish nosing about nearby. 

Then Hux moves forward a little so that he presses right up against Ren’s big, trembling body.

“Fuck.” Ren rakes his nails mindlessly up Hux’s spine, right up the back of his neck and into his short, prickly hair. “I can’t believe you’re really real.”

Hux moves his hips against Ren. His cock is rigid, through their shorts.

“How about now?” Hux licks at Ren’s jawline.

Ren becomes reasonably convinced. He leans in and finds Hux’s lips with his own. 

Hux is honey-wine and bitter smoke. And he _growls_, low and luscious, as he opens his mouth to Ren, and keeps doing an intuitive, deliberate, looping thing that rubs their cocks together, until Ren thinks he’ll lose his mind.

His pride’s already fucked off home; he shoves and walks Hux backwards through the surf, cursing out sappy compliments, until he can push Hux down without either of them drowning.

Hux is perfect white on cloudy blue.

A mean angel with hair like the fiery burnoff from a blaster muzzle.

“Stop devouring me with your ridiculously sexy eyes and help me get these off.” 

“Sorry.” Ren blinks. “I just want to remember.” 

They strip. 

“Yes. Well. I know what you mean.” Hux straddles Ren and spits into his hand and rubs them both with firm, intent strokes until they’re slippery and steely.

The tide murmurs over Ren’s instep and up the inside of his thighs. 

“You are more beautiful like this than I ever thought possible.” Hux says. 

His weight keeps Ren from doing much, which is just fine; Ren’s almost immobile from quickening, quivering pulses of heat that burn in his belly, and he’s scared to think too much about what’s actually fucking unfolding right here and now in case he comes before he can satisfy Hux and maybe even hear Hux call him _Kylo_ again. Be great if those two things happened at the same time, but Ren will literally take anything Hux wants to give him at this stage and…

“I am going to come, so bloody _hard_,” Hux grunts, tense and wild and backlit by yellow stars. “I am going to mark you with my come, Kylo. Cover you in it. As I should have done a long time ago.” 

“Uh, like, soon?” 

Hux manages to nod. 

“Thank fuck for that.” Ren unclenches his fists and holds Hux by the hips. 

Like they’ve found with most things lately, it’s even better when they work together towards a shared goal or desired corporate result.

“Fuck.” Ren can see their cocks gleaming and glistening in Hux’s grip. “Can we do this again when we get back to the hotel?”

“Do you mean the _barracks_?”

“Whatever.” 

“I’m sorry, Kylo,” Hux pants miserably, hair all mussed and smile crooked. “I’m not sure that we have the time.” 

And maybe saying that should have spoiled everything, poisoned it with regret.

But instead it makes them kiss more desperately, touch each other more urgently, and when they come, and Hux falls across him and says his name oh so gently, Ren knows that it’s not just his body Hux has somehow commandeered, but his goddamn kriffing heart as well.


	3. Wave

Sparks flare as Ren crashes his fighter down. 

“Are we under attack?” A new recruit screams, shortly before he’s force-thrown into a wall. 

“No more than usual,” Ren grunts, striding from the landing bay to the war room, lithe and monstrous; an unstoppable arrow of terrible determination. 

The dark lord is late for the weekly Planning Meeting. 

And this time, Hux has promised a videolink. 

It has to be sexier than the endless written reports, although Ren sucks every last drop of imagined desire from Hux’s dry-as-dust syntax, and the familiar, prim little margin calculations and addendums have been making him want to rut right up against the goddamn datapad. 

He gets it; Hux is all about the business, which is fucking _hot_, but also fucking _hard._

Ren doesn’t have the training for this interpersonal shit, so he just sends the same pathetic, pining message each time he replies; _You continue to be truly invaluable. To the Order._

The scheduled holovid connection starts to phase in. 

Ren locks the door and hurls his helmet down, scarring the long, empty conference table; the surface of it mirrors him, mocks him, and not for the first time in his life, Ren wishes that he wasn’t so fucking ugly. 

He braces himself, expects it to sting; overwork and self-neglect will have pinched Hux thin as a needle. 

“…and, Macsen, can you get that damned mausoleum reduced to rubble in the next three cycles? I would so appreciate it.” 

Ren’s smile shuts down.

Hux turns away from whoever the fuck this tool _Macsen_ is.

“Supreme Leader.”

“Uh. Grand Marshall?”

Hux is a pale golden colour. He’s wearing a tight black tank top and his toned shoulders and arms are constellated with a thousand stars of a slightly deeper shade. 

“Uh. You been getting buff on company time there, pal?” 

Ren sounds pissy, but Hux doesn’t even scold him for being a prick, just smooths back whatever the fuck that is on his head, all grown-out and loose, glorious stuff that immediately falls silkily back across Hux’s brow, threaded through with colours that a month on Seitcyn has put there; topaz and citrine and heliodor.

“Oh, you know how it is. We struggle on, here at High Command.” 

“Right.”

“There’s no ‘I’ in team, as they say. Or ‘threesome’.”

“What?”

“Sorry. Just a little Strategy, Munitions and Housekeeping humour.”

“Right.”

There’s a silence. Broken by recreational splashing of some kind; Hux is sitting outside somewhere. Possibly by a pool.

“So, I expect you want an update on my funerary restructuring programme?”

Ren shrugs. “It’s all I’m living for.” 

“Well, excellent.” 

Hux sends some guy off with a wave, possibly the fuckwit Macsen, who is apparently trying to hand-feed him pieces of sculpted fruit. 

“Snoke’s remains are to be transferred to a more…modest resting place. Kind of a…repository, really. And the memorial gardens are to be radically repurposed…”

“Back the fuck up a minute.” Ren tightens his grip on the sides of his chair. The metal creaks. “You’re talking about Eirion?”

“Yes.” Hux states slowly and clearly, as if Ren is some dumb-fuck rookie. “That place we used to go to conspire and connive and plot our rise to ultimate power.” 

“Used to go? Repurposed? And why wasn’t I, you know, consulted?”

Hux flushes slightly, glowing rose-gold beneath his freckles. Ren clamps down on the need to know where the tan ends and the regular virginal-white Hux begins. 

“Because, Kylo, this is my job, not yours. And, quite frankly, because even a fool can see that the site is far too valuable to waste on just Snoke’s huge, mouldering crypt…”

Ren swallows. His skin prickles with energy. The roaring calm of anger and betrayal replaces the numbness of loss. 

“I don’t give a fuck about that malevolent asshole’s rotting corpse.” 

“You should, Kylo,” Hux barks. “You bloody well killed him.”

Ren stands up. 

“Are you going to bring that up _every_ time we fight?”

Hux’s holo crackles and starts to break apart.

“Why the stars shouldn’t I? You know what an organisational _nightmare_ it was for me to sort out, but never so much as a ‘thank you, Armitage’...”

Ren smashes the video console into its component parts.

What does it matter? 

There’s no-one to tell him not to.

Hours later, when the ship itself is silent as a sepulchre around him, Ren puts in a request for an audio copy of his conversation with his ex-General. Just the parts of it where Hux has said his name. 

On a loop. Because none of the rest of it seems kriffing important anymore. 

Ren takes his fighter out for a run over to Eirion.

It’s the end of winter, and the ice-green of Hux’s eyes is not just in the water, but in the crystalline clouds and the rime on the things that are waiting, waiting, to live again; the grass, the trees, the reeds.

He shivers; he never noticed how freaking _cold_ it was there before. 

That suck-up shithead fucker _Macsen_ has demolished Snoke’s monument in two cycles, not three. Ren prowls through the tidily deserted construction site and kicks in the door of the only worker’s cabin with the lights still on. 

“A garden is one of the few things we make that should be permitted to show signs of chaos. Don’t you think?”

Hux is reviewing a morphing, moving holo of architectural plans that hovers above the display desk. It resolves itself into a building. And some flowering shrubs and shit.

“And Supreme Leader? Wipe your feet.”

Ren stomps in and doesn't so much watch the show as watch Hux watching the show. Shining images of natural foliage grow and cascade over Hux’s upturned face, his bare throat. He’s swapped out his beachwear for plain F O sweats. And he’s been running the gravel paths, just like old times; Ren can smell the perspiration on him, the mineral dust. 

“I like things that stay the same.”

“I know, Kylo.”

“Change is uncertainty. I’ve had more than my share of it.”

“I know that.”

Ren walks up behind Hux and turns his body and lifts him up onto the desk. Hux’s hands slide into Ren’s snow-starred hair. 

Ren kisses Hux and as soon as there is a way into Hux’s mouth he puts his tongue there, tasting and licking.

Hux unbuckles Ren’s wet cloak and lets it slip to the floor.

“Idiot,” he murmurs. “You’ll catch your death.”

Ren dabs and mouths at every new little freckle he uncovers, along Hux’s arms and collar-bone. His face and wrists. Makes them his. Over and over. 

His body aches for Hux’s come, on him, in him, the heat of it and the scent; he has become prey to hungers he didn’t even know he had. 

“I’m more frightened than I’ve ever been, because of you,” Ren looks at Hux and his fingers flex around that delicate neck.

They both feel the moment linger on. How much easier it would be, for Ren. A brief, sharp snap of leave-taking as opposed to the long death he expects to endure once Hux finishes whatever the hells he’s fucking about with there on Eirion.

Hux carefully closes his eyes. 

Ren pulls him closer, so that he can kiss him harder. 

They lower Ren’s leggings to free his cock. Hux puts a hand to it. He’s making sounds now, not words, and each one makes Ren grow stiffer, and wetter.

He feels clumsily between Hux’s legs. He’s too rough, but Hux just takes his fingers and slows him, slows them, until Hux at last eases completely out of his clothing and Ren pushes him backwards. 

He lays him out while the projections of the orchards and streams and meadows Hux wants to spread across the erased necropolis fall upon his warm, sun-smudged skin. 

Hux lifts his knees.

He cries out when Ren fucks into him.

Green pulses. Vine and unfurling leaf.

Ren wants to beg Hux not to go.

But all he can do is love him. Pull him about by the hips. Stroke his cock to thickness again and keep pushing, keep thumbing, keep saying his name. 

He’s too tired and uncontrolled to try to make it last. Nothing does, anyhow, so he just takes what he can get.

Hux moves like water, or air, or roots, driving through the ground. 

Ren thrusts into it all, wanting it all. 

And Hux comes and comes, hair tangled in his own fists, and Ren fills him to the point of agony, and joy.

Then they slump together, stunned, breathing fast, Hux curled up and Ren curled over. 

Eventually, Hux shuffles away slightly and gropes for a switch. The holo pauses above them. A ghostly stone building glimmers on a frosty rise. It has a tile roof and a porch thing along the front and many, many windows.

“Stars. Will we ever actually do this somewhere comfortable?” Hux groans as he untangles himself from Ren’s cock and arms and tunic top. He looks dazed. Beautiful and bruised. “Whatever happens, I will get the contractors to install the bed first, yes?”

Ren, released, sits down on the dirty mat.

“Bed?”

“I’m not ruling out impromptu assignations entirely. I am sure they will always have their charm. But the bedroom I have had designed has a fireplace and…” 

“Bedroom?”

“Our bedroom. In our house. On our planet.”

Hux points up at the now-static holo. 

Ren swallows. “Eirion? Is ours?” He scratches his knee. “Can you just…give yourself a planet?”

“Did you miss the memo where I was made Grand Marshall? I can do whatever the bloody hell I like.”

“But what about Seitcyn? HQ? Macsen?”

Ren shudders, blaming the draught and definitely not the fear that he is massively misunderstanding what’s happening.

Hux gets off the table and reaches behind the broken door to fetch his greatcoat. Tucks it across Ren’s shoulders. 

“I’ve elected to work from home,” he says. “It will make the most of the other perks I am allowing myself.”

“Perks?”

“A pet.” He kneels and folds himself into Ren’s arms and fusses with the coat, until it’s more over him than anywhere else. “A relationship.”

Ren stares. Hux hasn’t even got his flask out yet, so he must be insane, not drunk.

“Uh, you know we’re both fuckwits, to think we can have…this?”

“Of course. But since when did we let that stop us from taking what we want?”

Hux holds out his hand. There are even one or two freckles there. Ren needs to kiss them immediately. So, he does.

“All well and good, Kylo,” Hux narrows his eyes. “But please tell me that you didn’t forget my cigar?”

**Author's Note:**

> For boysnextdoor.


End file.
